Backstage 14: Tip of My Tongue
by Aadler
Summary: Is the proper term “absent father” … or “missing in action”?
1. Part 1

**Tip of My Tongue  
**by Aadler  
**Copyright August 2003**

* * *

Disclaimer: Characters from _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ and _Angel: the Series_ are property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui Enterprises, Sandollar Television, the WB, and UPN.

* * *

Part I

His eyes opened before his bedside alarm could sound, and he turned off the folding travel clock with the deftness of long habit. He knew it was meaningless, but nonetheless felt a small pride when he saw that he had awakened within a minute of the scheduled time. He stood, stretched, and spent a moment debating whether he should try to squeeze in some exercises before he showered. It was an ongoing argument between his reason (forty-four wasn't old, but if he didn't start taking care of himself he'd get old a lot sooner) and his pride (it never felt good to rediscover just how far he'd fallen from the careless athleticism of his college years). Conscience won out: he was on a job, and even if he wasn't first string, he really ought to do what he could to stay in trim.

To his surprise, it was easy. He cranked out a hundred push-ups, and didn't feel any particular strain until the count passed eighty-five. Sit-ups he gave up at a hundred and fifty, not because he had hit his limit but because he wasn't even coming close to it, and he had other things he wanted to do this morning. The rest of his occasional routine was devoted to stretching and flexibility, and those exercises too went with unprecedented smoothness. He checked himself over at the end, mystified, noting the evenness of his breathing and the taut flatness of his belly. He knew good and well he'd let himself run down the last few months — some sporadic jogging, a game of squash when he could find the time — but right now he felt like he could take on the world.

Well, he wasn't going to tempt fate by questioning his fortune. _Must be the sea air,_ he told himself, smiling at the nonsensicality of it, and went into the tiny bathroom of his cabin to get the shower and shave that would complete his morning preparations.

On the main deck he looked around, pulling the fresh salt-tinged breeze into his lungs and checking to see how many of the other passengers had risen as early as he had. He'd never spent that much time aboard ships before, but he noted with satisfaction that his balance was steady and his stomach untroubled by the motion of the deck below his feet. Of course, a cruise ship in calm seas wasn't exactly a roller coaster ride, but this was one of the smaller of such craft, and it wasn't impossible to get seasick on one. It just wouldn't be happening to Hank Summers, not today.

He took his customary breakfast (coffee and Danish) from the morning buffet, and strolled along the observation deck, feeling happy and well-rested and pleased with himself. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this good. As he descended a set of stairs (was there a special name for them on a ship, like "bulkhead" for a wall?) and started for the pool area, one of the stewards greeted him. "Good morning, Mr. Summers. How is your wife today?"

Hank allowed himself to look momentarily blank, then rushed to correct the seeming lapse. "Oh, my wife. Yes. She's sleeping in this morning; up too late last night, dancing and enjoying the show." He gave the steward an appreciative grin. "She's quite the party animal, Janie is."

Actually, Janie had gone over the side in a wet suit while they were anchored off Barcelona, and was no doubt head and ears into her mission by now. Hank's job was to maintain the illusion of her presence until she rejoined the ship at one of the countless small ports that dotted the coast where the Spanish Riviera gave way to the French and then the Italian. She was a trained agent, and he was her cover: the middle-aged man (okay, he could admit it, even if he didn't feel it) taking off for a self-indulgent holiday with his secretary under the flimsiest of pretenses.

The brisk walk around the decks left him both refreshed and restless. On his own, he would have explored some more, mixed with the other passengers, shared in the shipboard gossip and stories of home and crackbrained political theories that abounded wherever American tourists were to be found. He wasn't on his own, though, he was a man with responsibilities, and despite what his ex might say, he took his responsibilities seriously.

He was below decks and almost back to the cabin when he saw the woman. He tried to stop himself from staring, and then let it happen, a normal man in these circumstances _would_ stare, or at the very least obviously pretend not to. She was halfway up one of the little stairsets (he'd _have_ to find out what those were called), and she had draped herself over the railing with such total boneless lassitude that for a moment it appeared that she was twined through the thin metal support rods like ivy. A lot of the passengers were pale — he himself could stand to work on his tan — but this woman's skin might have never been touched by the sun. She was dressed in a lace-patterned gown of old-fashioned cut, and she regarded him with huge, dark, empty eyes, the unblinking unself-consciousness of a child.

As he made a show of pulling himself together, she stirred, her eyes holding his, and it seemed certain that she would come to him or call him to her; but then a steward, not the one he'd met topside, came down the stairs and touched her on the arm. "We have your drink, ready, ma'am," he said with practiced, professional gravity. "Just the way you like it."

The expression she turned on the man seemed hostile somehow, in a way it would have been difficult to define, but she spoke languidly. "Yes, yes, I'm thirsty. So kind of you to notice. The way I like it, you say?" She glanced back along the corridor to where Hank still stood watching, and a crafty smile tilted her lips. "Something with … lots of body to it?"

"You'll have to judge for yourself, ma'am," the steward replied. "If it doesn't satisfy you, we'll be happy to bring you something else."

"How very ingratiating of you." Her eyes left Hank, and he had the oddest conviction that he had just ceased to exist for her. "Lead, and I shall follow. Down and dark, shielded from the hateful furnace …" Her voice trailed out and was lost as the steward escorted her away.

Hank shook his head and turned to continue back to the cabin. He frowned as he walked. The effect the brief encounter had had on him … it wasn't uneasiness, exactly, but it was definitely a response to something very odd. The woman dressed like an Edwardian ingénue and talked like a mystic, but her accent was what you would hear from some lower-class British shopgirl. The combined impression, along with the strangeness of her behavior, was of something not quite real.

He shook it off. This was a _working_ vacation.

In the cabin he called room service to have a light Continental breakfast delivered, along with a small bottle of champagne. (The breakfast, regrettably, would go down the shipboard toilet, but he would enjoy what he could of the champagne.) He stripped and donned a short silk robe, and when yet another steward arrived with his order, he answered the door with the goofy eagerness he judged would be seen in a man having his midlife fling. Using the cabin door to block a view of the bed, he thanked the man effusively and gave him a tip that was rather too large before ostentatiously hanging the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the knob. As he pushed the door closed he turned to call to the empty bed, "Here you are, darling, something to start the day."

It was all part of the routine, but the words echoed in his memory to call up a pang of regret. How long since he'd spoken that way to any woman except Joyce? and how could he still have such undeniable feelings for a woman he had found it impossible to stay married to? She was in his past, but it was a past he'd never be able to put behind him; even if he found someone else (and he would, he was no hermit), some small part of her would always be there in the back of his mind.

Resolutely he continued with his duties. He poured champagne into both glasses, filling each only halfway; he drank the first, then carefully applied lipstick to his mouth with a tube from the smart little handbag Janie had left behind, and made sure to leave a good print on the second glass when he emptied it. He used a couple of tissues to wipe his mouth clear of lipstick, and dropped them into the bedside wastebasket, where they would provide further testimony that a missing woman was still in residence. On impulse he pulled the little slices of crisp toast from the Continental breakfast, munching them with absent-minded relish while he dumped and flushed the rest.

He showered again, this time using the herbal shampoo and French milled soap Janie had left. He was dressing a second time when the first odd note finally worked its way up to his conscious mind, and he stopped and glanced at the champagne bottle, vaguely puzzled. He had ordered the bottle to bolster the cliché he was trying to project, but had selected the label and vintage because he had heard it recommended but had never had the opportunity to sample it himself. And yet, the taste that still clung to the inside of his mouth … he poured another half-glass and sipped it slowly, rolling the effervescent liquid over his tongue and then letting it glide down his throat. Yes, there was no denying it, this vintage was thoroughly familiar to him: not something he'd encountered and forgotten, but something his taste buds _knew_, welcomed as an old friend. How on earth —?

Nothing. It was nothing. Similarity to something he'd had before, or maybe the ship was trying to economize by passing off cheaper drink under a prestigious label. He returned to his task, mussing both sides of the bed and leaving makeup stains on the towels, brushing his teeth with both toothbrushes, extracting one-day-worn clothing from an inner bag of Janie's suitcase and dropping it into the laundry hamper along with his own. He'd spend most of each day in this cabin until Janie returned, doing his part to conceal her absence. It was a more important assignment than the minor courier jobs he usually got, and rather more luxurious, but there was nothing remotely exciting about it.

That, unfortunately, was the way it worked. The first approach, back in the Eighties, had been exciting, and back then it had made sense. With budget cuts and endless Congressional inquiries, U.S. intelligence activities overseas had been dangerously curtailed. There was a crippling shortage of trained personnel … but, one of the mid-level decision makers had realized, many jobs didn't require the talents of a formal agent. When you needed people to pose as innocent American tourists, why not recruit and send out — never for more than one job — actual American tourists, briefed and voluntary but serving more as filler than anything else? Hank had been in one of the first few groups (fortunately, because the program had been precipitously deep-sixed the moment Congressional oversight got a whiff of it), happy to serve his country and inject a little variety into a life that was already threatening to become humdrum. He had found it enough to his taste that, eight months after his initial foray into the outer fringes of espionage, he had quietly contacted CIA headquarters in Langley and volunteered to do more of it.

They had been cautious, but had not actively discouraged the idea; there was a history within the Company of using actual job-holding citizens for the occasional minor operation, it was the mass-marketing and relative high profile of the Masquerade program that had moved horrified directors to pull the plug. Hank was thoroughly investigated, asked some pointed questions about a college girlfriend who had dabbled in Socialism and some dubious charities to which he had contributed without fully researching them, but ultimately given a clean bill of health. Thereafter, once or twice a year he would make a foreign trip, either business or vacation, with some small item to pick up or deliver (always sealed against casual curiosity, but he'd never been tempted), sometimes only with instructions to be available as a point of contact if one was needed. Only once had he taken his wife and daughter along on such an outing; it had been gently recommended that he not repeat the practice, and in truth he had discovered by then that he enjoyed operating solo, it supported the pretense of greater intrigue and danger, while at the same time freeing him of responsibility for his family's safety. And God knew, he definitely needed the time to himself now and then …

Sometimes he wished there could be a _little_ more thrill to it. The reality, however, was that the way things were suited him pretty well. The Company had taught him a few techniques of tradecraft, mostly how to keep from drawing attention to himself, and left it at that. The whole point of his role was that he was exactly what he appeared to be, an unremarkable American traveling periodically on valid business, unsuspected because he was (almost) totally innocent. He occasionally took martial arts classes, occasionally read gun magazines, occasionally dreamed of glory for which he knew himself to be unqualified; in the main, however, he was content with his lot.

The only problem was that, this time, he couldn't get out and mix the way he would have liked. He was Janie's cover, which meant keeping to himself a lot more than was his usual habit. He couldn't stay in _too_ much — that also would have attracted notice, of a different kind — but he still felt the constraint.

Right. Like this was a hardship tour. He poured himself more champagne, and extracted a thick Stephen King paperback from his suitcase. Once he had settled himself into a comfortable position on the bed, he started in on the first chapter.

Ordinarily he liked King, and ordinarily a book this size would have been worth a full day of unhurried reading. This time, though, he found himself dissatisfied. It was … predictable, somehow, as if the themes and plot threads had been used too many times; he skimmed entire sections, seeing what was about to be revealed the moment the first foreshadowing was laid. Maybe Steve was letting himself get into a rut. And the basic foundation of the story, who could really believe it? A bunch of kids, pitting themselves against supernatural horrors; an entire town where children routinely disappeared and no one seemed to notice; monsters in the sewers, mind control that had people perpetrating massacres or ignoring them … if a town like that existed anywhere in the world, the _Enquirer_ would have a field headquarters set up in city hall. Be serious: entertainment or not, a person could be expected to suspend only so much disbelief.

(And a demon clown as the central villain? come on, who could ever be afraid of a clown? Vampires, now, there was good threat material; he'd loved _Salem's Lot_, and any other vampire stories he could find. Well, except for that effete, overblown Anne Rice nonsense; it was silliness like that, he was convinced, that had led to his daughter's expulsion and near-breakdown five years ago.)

He finished the book in four hours, and let it fall onto the bedside table. He stared at the ceiling, disgruntled and … disturbed, somehow, though he couldn't have said why, exactly. The morning had started off well enough, but had slid downhill at a rate that was almost imperceptible but still managed to reach bothersome levels. Damn it, if _every_ shipboard romp with an obliging secretary was this tedious, the world would be smitten by an epidemic of marital fidelity.

The thought brought no amusement, but it did bring him back to the task of the moment. He called the switchboard, or whatever it was on a boat, and requested a wake-up call in three hours and a plate of oysters by room delivery. When the latter arrived, he overtipped again, and through a conspiratorial smirk he observed to the steward, "Little woman's putting in some time at the pool. Me, I'm going to stoke the furnace and then rest a little." And, hefting the plate of oysters, he added, "Man's got to keep up his energy."

Was he overacting? he asked himself as he went to the small table set against the wall. Well, maybe a bit, but not too much. You had to be sure you laid on enough to make the impression you wanted, and he'd seen plenty of men get a lot more extreme when they had an option on some young female flesh. Besides, he really did like oysters.

The funny part was that he'd noticed Janie (who wouldn't?) but not felt any particular attraction. She was the temp who had come in when his regular secretary took a long-deferred vacation, and she had performed her duties with cool efficiency while still dressing and behaving in a way that made it clear that she was prime female and unapologetically in the market. She had interested but not tempted him … and then she had delivered the itinerary for the trip to Spain (which he already knew would double as an outing for Uncle Sam) with a change from automobile tour to cruise liner, and a cabin booked for the both of them. At his look of uncertainty — she was definitely bold enough to come up with something like this on her own — she had flashed him one of the standard recognition signals. The mission was on, and any potential fantasies died aborning.

Her name was probably an alias. But she was by-God officially established as his secretary, and they were on record for this cruise together. He might not receive any of the benefits, but he'd certainly have the bragging rights when he got back home.

The oysters went well with the still-chilled champagne, as he had somehow known they would, and he pulled out what would have been tomorrow's entertainment: Tom Clancy this time, and almost as thick as the King. If he let himself sink into the techno-details he sometimes skipped, this one should last him for a while …

It didn't, though. The plot was solid, the language satisfying, all the elements were there, but once again he anticipated almost all the major turns and developments. It was as if he'd read the same book ten years before, with the details coming back unsummoned as he approached them. (_Could_ he have read it already, and then forgotten it? No; you could lose track of something by Christie or Asimov, but Clancy's output was gauged in number of pages rather than multiplicity of titles.) The story had been fulfilling in a way that he would never have gotten from the demon clown, but it was a pleasure revisited rather than newly discovered, and once again it was over far too quickly.

The wake-up call had come and gone, and he was hungry again. He had called to schedule a massage for his "wife", then called back an hour later to cancel, she wanted to go to one of the dance classes instead. He had met the basics of his agenda for today, and had managed to keep himself occupied. Problem was, he'd gone through almost all of his reading material, enough to have filled maybe three days if he could have leavened it with other diversions. He needed to replenish his stock; there was no knowing how long he had before Janie returned, and he was beginning to discover that "cabin fever" was a term with some punch behind it.

He removed the DO NOT DISTURB sign and left the cabin; this would give the cleaning staff an opportunity to register the evidence he had left. He considered an early supper, but decided instead to draw a light snack from another of the endless buffets, and then he went straight to the nearest gift shop.

The paperback racks brought no inspiration; he glanced over the available titles and could summon no enthusiasm for any of the offerings. Spy novels (no, thanks, not with the mood he was in), thrillers, Westerns, bodice-rippers, they all left him cold. It was more of the same "been there already" sense that had flavored most of his day. Oh, he might be willing to take another shot at _DUNE_, that was one that didn't pall with repetition, but he really would have preferred something fresh.

Magazines? He checked the selection. News, gossip, computers, muscle & fitness, fashion, travel … There. He reached in and extracted a copy of _Inside Karate_, those were usually entertaining and even if there was nothing interesting in any of the articles, he could always practice some of the illustrated techniques. He turned for the counter, glad at last to have something to occupy him —

— and almost ran into the person who had been standing behind him. He had to take a step back (she was so close that he really should have been able to feel her breath on the back of his neck), and had already begun an automatic apology when he recognized the woman from the stairs.

As before, her eyes held him with unsettling directness, and though she didn't glance at the magazine he held, her words seemed to refer to it. "_Oh-h-hh._ Wishes to have a warrior's heart, does he?" Her tone was less ethereal than before, and she smiled with seemingly genuine amusement. "He shall have the chance, perhaps. We shall have to see about that, shan't we?"


	2. Part 2

Part II

Her name was Drusilla (though it had required nearly an hour of somewhat disjointed conversation for him to learn that much), and she was without question the most fascinating woman he had ever met.

No denying it, you had to be careful about getting stuck on your first impression. If he'd had only the one sighting to go on, he would have sworn she was stoned or mentally unhinged. Having her beside him, though, feeling the flow and force of that extraordinary personality, seeing himself in her eyes (her eyes!), he had no choice but to revise his opinion; no, to junk it and start over. That quicksilver mind, leaping from one subject and opinion to another, faster than he could follow; the cool slim fingers, trailing along his arm or across the line of his collar with a near-electric thrill; the bewitching smile, glossy dark hair, ivory skin (almost translucent, so pale and flawless); and her eyes, always those eyes … She was charming and quirky and sensual in an other-worldly way — Janie, who had seemed so exotic, was a gawky, freckled farm girl by comparison — and for her to be with him was like the fulfillment of some fairy tale he had scorned before being confronted with the living fact.

Nor was he the only one to be struck by how special she was; the ship's crew and staff, and many of the other passengers as well, practically danced attendance on her, hovering around the two of them like some fluttering cloud of anxious butterflies. She accepted their attention with regal unconcern, even seeming annoyed sometimes (and he was getting a little irked, himself) at the ceaseless stream of supplicants panting for the chance to carry out her smallest wish; but, no, it was impossible to be angry while she was near, only grateful and accommodating and eager for more.

After her first words to him, he had put the magazine back on the gift shop shelf without looking, and gone with her to one of the below-decks ballrooms. (He had suggested a walk topside, but she had gracefully declined, murmuring, "Not yet.") There they talked, and talked, though mostly he listened, and couldn't really remember much of what was said, that wasn't what mattered. She was widely traveled and vastly experienced; he couldn't always follow the thread of her narrative, but she had visited countries he'd never heard of, and her expression would become truly rapturous as she spoke of dining in Tirana, Novosibirsk, or Ad-Dujayl, though she seemed deeply dissatisfied with the service she had received in Prague. (More than once he marveled that a girl with such a hearty appetite could remain so slender.) Some of her reminiscences included someone called "Spike", who apparently was a decent enough fellow despite the pretentious machismo of the name, because she would occasionally speak of him as her poor, lost angel; at least, that was what it sounded like. She was traveling alone just now, however, and that was perfectly to Hank's liking.

At last she had stood, announced, "The moon is calling to me," and looked around the ballroom with eyes that dared anyone to follow. No one did, and at last he had her to himself.

In the moonlight of the open deck, his companion was even more a creature from a dream. It was all he could do to focus on her words, and they strolled together, her arm in his, with only the infrequent other couple to pass near the periphery of their blissful solitude. "It grows," he realized she was saying. "Sprouting within him, tendrils sinking deep. Lions have roots, you know, and lions' roots will sink even into thin poor soil if you water it right …" She trailed off, gazing out over the still surface of the ocean. "Too much salt," she said, and looked to him with a reproachful twist to her mouth. "But still it grows."

"I feel that way sometimes myself," he agreed. "Every time I go abroad, I try to get a little outside the beaten path. I'm no jet-setter like you, but I expand my horizons when I can."

"Twittering," she said dismissively. "He's a book with old pages, but the roots go through them anyhow. Poor soil, yet it grows." She turned away again. "A puzzlement, like the dreadful girl but less. She calls him Father, while her heart knows elsewise."

"Buffy?" He frowned, trying to remember; when had they talked about his daughter? "We've had some rocky patches, I'll admit, but I don't think she's one to hold a grudge." _You missed her last three birthdays,_ something inside him prompted with faint scorn. _How's that for grudges?_ He pushed it away; he'd make it this year, he'd sworn to himself that he wouldn't fail her again. "We'll be okay."

"She has her father's eyes," Drusilla mused (which wasn't true, Buffy's eyes weren't like his or Joyce's, but were uniquely her own), and began to move around him in the patterns of some obscure little dance. "A closed trio," she said, almost humming the words. "The daughter is lightning, and the father is a sword, and the mother is a flame — she burned away my angel, you know, before I changed the path — can't touch them, so I trifle with you." She smiled up at him, sliding her hands over his shoulders and across his chest as she revolved around him. "Fourth corner of the triangle, odd man out, still standing when all the chairs are filled …" She stopped, and pouted. "But lions' roots. You are _such_ a disappointment."

"I'm sorry," Hank said to her, and meant it; the last thing he wanted was to disappoint her, he'd been guilty of too much of that in his life. "Anything I can do, just tell me."

"A tune that keeps playing out the same verse," she sighed; then she looked back to him with doubt and speculation and a kind of arch interest. "Anything?" she repeated.

"Anything at all," Hank assured her. _Just don't send me away from you._

"His eyes are bitter," she told him, "and his breath burns. He wearies me, this man. Do you feel his eyes?"

Until the last part, Hank had thought she was talking about _him_ again, it followed the pattern of her earlier speech. Now he looked around, trying to see who she might have meant. The only person in view was standing almost fifty feet away, leaning against the rail with his back to them. Hank had noticed him in the throng at the ballroom, a thick-shouldered linebacker type in a white short-sleeved shirt with large pockets and a square hem worn outside the trousers, the kind of shirt you saw in the Philippines and some Latin American countries. "That guy? What, has he been bothering you?"

"He has a wicked soul," she said in seeming agreement. "So sweet. But he does not conduct himself properly in the presence of a lady." She turned to Hank with sudden urgency and said, "My toes, they twist opposite each other. How can I dance upon such toes?"

Something about that wasn't right, but Hank was tunneling in on the fellow at the rail. Tough-looking customer, and was the man posed there just a little too casually? He wanted to leap to the attack (he'd been sincere when he said anything at all), but the principles of his rudimentary briefings and memories of LeCarré held him back: if the man was actually a threat to Drusilla, initiating a confrontation might endanger her even more. "Come this way," he told her, taking her by the arm. "We'll see if he follows."

She didn't seem to hear him — she was whimpering, "It bleeds, it bleeds!", and he felt a swell of rage at seeing her upset — but she allowed him to lead her away, moving to place the walls supporting the observation deck between them and the man at the rail. Hank felt his muscles relax; the other guy hadn't even shifted to keep them in view, if he'd ever been able to see them in the first place. All the same, he reminded himself to stay alert, there were tails that worked in teams, and the other part of one such could be angling toward them now …

There, _that_ couple. Now the sweat on his temples went cold; they had been in the ballroom, too, and now that he thought about it, he was sure they'd passed him and Drusilla twice since the two of them had come outside, only now they were moving in the opposite direction. He studied them with breathless concentration; he could be getting keyed up, imagining things that weren't there —

No. He _knew_. The woman had a small radio in her bag, and the man was carrying a weapon: a taser, not a handgun, but he'd use his boots on you once you were down. How Hank knew this, he couldn't have said, but he didn't question it. He pulled Drusilla into an unplanned course correction, towing her after him up the stairs. She let out a little cooing sigh, like a child seeing a delightful surprise, and not even the growing fear could override the jolt of adoration he felt for her. They wouldn't hurt her, he wouldn't let it happen, he'd kill anyone who tried.

To his surprise, the observation deck was clear. There should have been someone there, either crew or passengers, but for the moment they were alone. "Looks like we have some breathing space," Hank told Drusilla. "Look, why would anybody be after you? Are you an heiress or something?"

"I'm a princess," she said, with the blithe certainty of one whose provenance has never been questioned. "I even had a consort once, but the little red witch put the horrid thing back inside him." Her face lost its dreamy expression, and crumpled into grief. "My poor lost angel …"

Damn it. A _princess!_ He should have known: the places she'd been, the air of being above it all, the way she automatically commanded attention and obedience; even the accent, she must have learned English from a nanny with lower-class roots. So she was important, certainly wealthy, perhaps of a family with political influence that went beyond the borders of her own country. And a target, suddenly, with no protection other than what he could provide for her.

They couldn't stay here. They were alone for the moment, but exposed. He pulled her to one of the central stairwells and they went down again, away from the open decks, seeking cover in the interior of the ship. As they dropped below floor level he caught a flash of motion from the other side, someone coming up to the level they had just left, perhaps the couple that had been tracking them. God, that was close! He had to find some place to hide her. His room: if she was the target, they might not know who he was or where to find him, and he could keep her safe there for a short time while he decided what to do next.

He could remember being confused by the ship's layout when he first came on board, but tonight he knew exactly where he was and where to go. The corridors were clear, much more than he would have expected; this wasn't a movie, where New York City streets were conveniently deserted whenever dramatic purposes required it, and the anomaly troubled him even while he welcomed the absence of potential opposition. There should have been _someone,_ it just didn't make sense! In the background the voice on the PA was saying something about the purser and entertainment director needing to report immediately; it was the same form and routine he'd been hearing since he boarded, but he knew with instant unreasoning conviction that it was a coded alert, that other teams on the ship were being called out to hunt for them. In heaven's name, _how many people were in on this?_

He used the internal stairs to move them from one deck to the next, not trusting the elevator, too easy to get boxed in. His breath was quick with excitement but not exertion, his body was holding up just fine to the unexpected demand, forty-four or not. Of course, the waif-woman he led was keeping up with equal lack of strain … To his astonishment, he realized she was actually singing, a child's rhyme: _"See how he runs, see how he runs —!"_ Even as the awareness hit him, she stopped suddenly, and he was almost yanked from his feet by his own grip on a wrist that was suddenly immovable. Before he could protest, she pulled him to her. "My hero," she whispered, her eyes all but glowing. "My valiant protector." And then cool lips were pressing against his own, and some kind of amazing explosion went off inside his skull.

It was nearly impossible for him to keep remembering their position and his responsibility for her, but he made it happen. "My room," he gasped, pulling away from her. "It's right down this hall. Come on, we can hide there for a little while —"

Despite all his desperate will, he was still dazed from the intoxicating power of that kiss, and failed to do a quick side-peek before leaving the stairs for the corridor. As he led Drusilla into the hall, there was a motion at the farthest edge of his peripheral vision; a reflex that shouldn't have been there jerked him away in an abortive evasion, but too late to save him from the fist that thudded into the side of his neck. He had _never_ been hit so hard, he almost blacked out on his feet, but he drew strength from the small hand resting in his own and staggered a step to the side, turning to face his attacker.

It was the man from the rail, the one in the Philippine shirt. "Tryin' to be clever, huh?" he said, advancing on the two of them with unworried confidence. "Doesn't matter, we always find you."

"Look, wait, we can talk about this," Hank said, fast and frantic … and struck, launching a downward-slanting side kick that would crack the other man's knee, with a backfist ready to flash in right behind it. The speed and fluency of the move were a fresh astonishment, the adrenaline was really squirting tonight! but the big-shouldered man forestalled it, sliding in to slam a knee into Hank's thigh, numbing the leg, and the follow-up punch found Hank's solar plexus with surprising delicacy and devastating effect. He fell as if someone had pushed an OFF button, unable to breathe, all but paralyzed by the impact to the nerve cluster.

"Same damn thing every damn time," the other man sneered, his breath redolent with garlic. "Buddy, you are pathetic." He reached down, and Hank rolled to his side and wrapped an arm around the ankle next to him, locking it tight to his body; his legs, he could barely move his legs, but he twisted them around and took the other man down in a clumsy scissoring movement, and as the man landed Hank hammered kick after kick into the beefy face until resistance ceased.

He made it onto his knees by his own effort, and Drusilla drew him the rest of the way up. "Growl and grumble," she said resignedly. "The lion grows. So vexing … but he does it for me. Such a bold heart, how might it taste —?"

He wanted desperately to understand, but there was no time. Again he pulled her along and again she went without struggle or protest. He double-bolted the door to his room as soon as they were inside, and turned to his companion, momentary relief warring with fresh anxiety. "That guy got a good look at me, and I think some of the crew might be with him, so we may not have much time. You have to have some kind of security, don't you? Someone we could call?"

"I am traveling incognito," she said with simple, serene dignity. "These others, they're nasty but they have no weight." She slid her arms around his waist, moving her body against his. "So gallant. A book with old pages, but new pictures sometimes." She glanced toward the bolted door and added, "They can't harm me. They don't dare."

Hank wished he had her confidence. They might indeed be determined to take her unhurt, but their plans after that would surely involve threats they might feel it necessary to carry out. He was her only line of defense, and not even the heady tonic of her praise could erase his conviction that she needed a more capable champion.

He forced himself to think. He couldn't get out a call without going through the switchboard, which would take far too long even if he could be sure it wouldn't be intercepted. There was no quick way to reach any of the Company people above him — it didn't work like that, he wasn't an agent, they called _him_ if they had any use for him — and the standard lines of communication could never accomplish anything in time. It was hopeless, he was cut off here —

No, there was a way. Get a message into Janie's luggage, tucked away where it would escape casual inspection but not where she'd fail to find it. His involvement here was accidental, they'd have no reason to take extraordinary measures in dealing with him. It wouldn't prevent a kidnapping, but it might get the Company involved a little more quickly and with more information. He'd have to work quick, call up whatever pertinent details were available and get them recorded and hidden before he was tracked down here.

"Near," Drusilla mused, yanking his attention back to the immediate moment. "And soon, they gather and press, so many of them." He looked at her, unsure but fearful all the same, and she repeated, "Near and soon. Oh, he is undone, he is."

For once he was able to follow her meaning, and he grabbed her, shoving her toward the bathroom with an insistent, "Get in there, lock yourself in!" Without even looking to see if she had obeyed, he leaped to gather such weapons as he could: the champagne bottle, he wished now he'd ordered a larger size but he'd have to make the best of it, and for good measure he dropped a heavy glass ashtray into one of his spare socks, letting it slide down into the toe. It was done in seconds, he might have put in weeks of training for just such an eventuality, and he finished and was already turning with eerie foreknowledge as the cabin door clicked and swung open.

He recognized them as they filed inside, more than a dozen of them: the stewards he'd dealt with today, the people from the ballroom, the couples who had passed him on the deck, the gift shop woman … even the ones he didn't remember, he _knew_ them, as if he'd been dealing with them all for a long time. He faced the lot of them with teeth bared and an improvised weapon in either hand; but the first words spoken, by the man who had led Drusilla away for a drink this very morning, weren't addressed to Hank. "Ma'am, you know we can't leave you alone with him. We've discussed this many times."

"But he's such a treat," she answered from behind him, and Hank realized with horror that she hadn't locked herself away after all. "His mind tickles, and the roots are still growing."

He should have stalled, talked to them, dragged it out as long as possible in hope of some miraculous deliverance. He couldn't stop himself, though, the danger to his helpless companion triggered a kind of madness. With a bellow he hurled the weighted sock like a stone from a sling, and launched himself after it, clubbing with the champagne bottle. They had arranged themselves while the steward was talking, two with tasers at the forefront, but the thrown missile took one on the cheek and he fell into the other, and Hank was on the rest of them before they could recover. They gave way before him, swearing and stumbling over one another, and he connected twice, solidly, then his arms were seized and other arms clutched at his legs and waist, bearing him down by weight and massed strength. He kicked, struggled, tore at a too-close wrist with his _teeth,_ screaming in rage and despair. Drusilla, if he fought hard enough he might keep them occupied until she could get away, _Drusilla —!_

He saw her as multiple hands turned him over and a hypodermic needle appeared at the edge of his vision: a man with the shoulder-boards of a junior officer had hold of her, leaning back as if braced to lift her from her feet, those pale hands clenching in the cloth of his uniform. The sight galvanized Hank into a fresh eruption of effort, heaving and snarling, and she must have done something because the man slumped and fell, there was blood on her mouth and her face was twisted with what had to be terror. Then he lost her again as more and more bodies piled atop him, burying him in numbers and helplessness and failure.

Crushed and immobilized, he heard someone saying, "Hold him steady, I can't get to the vein!" — and then the pressure on him disappeared, curses and thuds of violent impact, and slender, powerful hands yanked him upright. Impossible, no explaining it but _act_ don't think! He started for the open door, tugging her in his wake … and was again jerked to a stop, as if she were a steel post sunk into concrete.

Protests died on his lips as she swung him to face her. Other faces, other voices, other sights and sounds faded and vanished, there was only Drusilla. Her fingers caressed his cheek, moved up to slide into his hair, and the other hand rested against his temple, lightly but as implacable as if the nails extended through the bone of his skull. She was only, she was all, there was nothing else; her lips brushed his once more, and her breath whispered through him. "Be. In my eyes. Be. In me."

Too late he felt it, the memory that had lain quiet while so many others clamored to break free. He would have fought it, he would have begged, he would have he didn't know what, her will and power enfolded every part of him. With a last silent cry to his lost daughter, he fell, and was gone.


	3. Part 3

Part III

As always, the after-action review was held in the area that served as the ship's ballroom. It was as much a matter of practicality as of economy; the room had all the necessary facilities, and was familiar and convenient to the seven department heads of the project group. The Director took his usual place at the captain's table, and looked about with a benign smile that comforted no one. "All present? Good, let us begin. Mr. Samuels?"

Samuels, who doubled as one of the five primary stewards, was a psychiatrist who had lost his license some years before being recruited. "What can I say, sir? You know my position on this. Whenever _she_ comes calling, we dance to her tune and come out basically with nothing. Given the nature of the scenario, it went about as well as could be expected. At least, we didn't lose as many people this time."

"That is not your area," the Director reproved. "Mr. LeRoy, how do we stand with personnel?"

LeRoy, face puffed and turning many colors from where Hank had kicked him unconscious, shrugged with passable aplomb. " 'Bout as usual, boss. Ed's dead, o'course, and they're checkin' Paolo for concussion, but I'd say he'll be all right. Tina has a broken collarbone from that champagne bottle; do we fix her up and keep her in the background, or should we …?" He let it trail off.

The Director chuckled. "Don't hesitate to recommend termination, Mr. LeRoy, if logistical and procedural requirements demand it. No, Tina usually doesn't feature heavily in our little reenactments; brace her as she needs, give her a shawl to conceal the brace, and place her in a position of lesser exposure while she heals. That will introduce a variable, of course, but less than if we removed her entirely. Ms. Clarke?"

Clarke was the woman who had carried a radio in her handbag, though neither she nor any of the others knew that Hank had retained any awareness of it. "I did a quick run through all the surveillance, sir, and we'll cover it later in more detail, but we probably didn't get anything new. We seldom do, when Drusilla comes to play."

"She's useless as tits on a boar hog," LeRoy groused, "and not near as much fun to have around. She shows up, we spend all our time tryin' to protect Summers from _her,_ 'steada gettin' on with the job. Not to mention, she almost always eats somebody even though we're s'posed to be workin' together. Why do we put up with that crazy bitch, anyway?"

The Director raised an eyebrow. "We tolerate her intermittent visits, Mr. LeRoy, because that 'crazy bitch' makes possible the continuation of this endeavor. Unless she periodically reinforces the psychic template she imposed upon our Mr. Summers, we cannot maintain the suppression of his memory, and losing that capability would seriously compromise the value we can yet derive from him."

There was no response to this statement, and the Director surveyed the other faces at the table. "I am aware that most of you find dealing with our vampiric colleague to be …" He coughed. "Stressful. You have all behaved with laudable professionalism, as I expect you shall continue to do, and we shall have several weeks to acquire further useful data from Mr. Summers before we can expect Drusilla to reappear." Again he studied his subordinates, and went on. "The majority of you know some part of the background of this project, but none of you have been apprised of its full scope. That is a normal precaution, and you accepted it with appropriate lack of complaint. We've been together for some time, however, and you have all proven yourselves capable of maintaining the necessary internal security. Perhaps, then, an overview of the reasons for our current efforts, its origins and its aims, will clarify your understanding and ease some of your concerns."

None of the others responded to that (LeRoy seemed to recognize that he had drawn uncomfortable attention to himself), but Clarke cleared her throat and said, "It's true that there are some things that might … make more sense, sir, if we knew all the details."

"Very well." The Director smiled again, and several people at the table tensed. "My services were originally retained, and I authorized to assemble a project team, by commission from an … important firm in Los Angeles. I was provided with funds for preliminary operations, one of a number of such individuals tasked to investigate this or that member of the Slayer's immediate circle. The girl's father was to be my purview, and I began what should have been a delicate but routine process.

"We encountered only two substantial difficulties, but they were substantial indeed. The first was when we found that Mr. Summers was tangentially affiliated with an American intelligence organization, and the contact team responded to this discovery by taking him prisoner and carrying him away." His mouth tightened. "They exceeded their mandate, and were suitably disciplined; you needn't concern yourselves with them. The second was when I attempted to make a status report to Mr. Mercer, and found that he had exceeded _his_ mandate; the project was unknown to the larger firm, Mr. Mercer had been dismissed with stringent prejudice, and I had neither authorization nor any likelihood of payment for activities I had already initiated.

"It was at this juncture, fortunately, that I was sought out by the vampiress. You are aware, of course, that she is insane, but she is also endowed with formidable psychic gifts. It was she who first set Mr. Summers' memory on indefinite loop, and she also who informed me of my captive's potential importance. I do not pretend to understand the motives behind her contributions — very probably she herself does not, in the unlikely event that she has ever considered the matter — but that is the reason we allow her active participation when she desires it."

He stopped, and waited, and this time it was Samuels who spoke up. "I knew some of this, like you said, but that does put it into more of a logical context. But, sir, we're not really _getting_ anything from Summers. Even without Drusilla's interference, no matter how many times we run him through the scenario, no matter which variables we alter, we can never take him past a certain point —"

"Mr. Summers is a man of severely limited imagination," the Director said blandly, and all the faces watched him with careful, expressionless attention. "His obstinacy, however, is quite remarkable. Every day he awakes on the same morning; every day, thanks to Drusilla's trance, he walks about our floating operations center, seeing the rooms and decks and hallways of the ship from which he was taken, and securely believing that this is his second day of that never-completed cruise. Every day he does a quick workout, showers, takes a walk, and begins the dreary masquerade of his long-absent partner's illusory presence. Every day, we test his resolution, and he never breaks. _He never breaks,_ no matter what approach we take; we can overwhelm but never defeat him. And every day, the memory of that testing is taken from him with the sunset; he cannot resist us, he cannot begin to mount defenses, because he is unaware of the need. We accumulate a mounting store of knowledge about him, but his own knowledge never increases. It is the perfect captivity."

Again Samuels was the one to respond. "You've cleared up a great deal for us, sir, and I'm sure we're all grateful. It's … it's difficult, though, to see how Summers could be worth it. I agree that his resolution in this regard is exceptional, but it's exceptional only in human terms." He looked around for a support that wouldn't be forthcoming. "Compared to the areas where you operate, he's just so … well, ordinary."

"Yes, so it would seem. On the surface." The Director's expression was still calm, tolerant, but no longer encouraging. "I have the testament of Drusilla, however, and have confirmed it with reference to several well-authenticated prophecies." He looked over his subordinates, one by one, and no one doubted that further inquiry would be unwelcome. "The Slayer's father features signally in coming battles; he is pivotal to a point only barely less than the Slayer herself and Los Angeles' vampire champion. He is _key,_ ladies and gentlemen; the Slayer's father is a vital figure, and we control him, and that allows us priceless access to the power that will change hands with the coming End of Days."

Clarke, listening, felt a pang of unease. Something Drusilla had said to Summers … she'd caught only a part of it, she'd have to remember to check it when she went over the tapes … She sat very straight and kept her mouth firmly closed. The mood had changed here, she could see that, and she wasn't about to stick her neck out by speaking now. And it really might be her imagination: Clarke was not a sentimental woman, and felt no more sympathy for Hank Summers than for a lab rat; but seeing him and Drusilla together was like watching a baby play with a cobra, an assault on feelings she had thought burned out long ago. Any hint of this reaction might be seen as weakness. No, best to stay quiet.

"I am willing to bring this meeting to an early close," the Director was saying, "as I agree with the general consensus that today's events have neither brought out new information nor raised new issues. If no one has anything else —?"

"He's gettin' better," LeRoy said.

All eyes turned to the burly chief of human security. "Yes, Mr. LeRoy?" the Director prompted.

"This guy —" LeRoy shook his head, as if unable to articulate the thoughts inside it (which was not out of the question; though superbly accomplished in his own field, LeRoy had considerably less education than anyone else in the room). "Every day, 'less we change the scenario or Princess Froot-Loops prances in to screw everything up, he goes down to that same damn gift shop, he buys the same damn karate magazine, he goes back to his room and practices the same damn techniques, and if we have to fight, he comes at me the same damn way every time. I know exactly what he's gonna do and exactly how to stop it, he should be cotton candy on a stick. But _he keeps gettin' better._" He looked to his colleagues with troubled eyes. "He caught me out today, and it ain't the first time. Sticking the ashtray in the sock, that was new, too. It's spooky, is what it is."

"Mr. Summers' memory of this day remains perpetually virgin," the Director pointed out, "but his body does reap the benefits of sustained regular exercise, and his muscles establish new neural pathways as he repeats the same few techniques again and again. This is a change we cannot prevent without causing greater change, but it remains within acceptable tolerances. As for his innovation with weaponry, that is as likely to have sprung from Drusilla's presence in the equation, as from any other cause. Your concern is noted, but I believe it can be safely disregarded for the present."

"I don't know, there's just somethin' about the guy." LeRoy became aware of the circle of eyes on him, and flushed beneath the bruises, but went on doggedly. "We've got him cold, nothin' he can do about it, solidest setup I've ever seen. But I read this science fiction story once —" He paused to glare at the others (but not at the Director). "C'mon, we didn't _all_ grow up studyin' ritual sacrifices. Anyway, this buncha aliens was tryin' to figure out how, ever' ten thousand years or so, humans would come boilin' outta Earth, go tearin' through whatever galactic empire was runnin' things about then, bust everything to hell, and then burn out and settle back down on their own little mudball. They wondered what made us able to do that, so they grabbed one ordinary Earth guy and took him back for study.

"See, this is the part that creeps me out: they put him in the perfect prison, just like we got here. They fixed up his body so it would never wear out, so they could keep him _forever_; he couldn't even get away by killin' himself, they'd just revive him and stick him back in the same cell. They fixed it so there wasn't any possible way to get out —"

"I believe we appreciate the particulars of your parallel, Mr. LeRoy," the Director interjected. "Is there a point to it?"

"So," LeRoy continued, speaking more quickly now, "he got out in an _impossible_ way, he got out in a way that couldn't be done. And he stole one of their ships and took off, in a body that never aged, with somethin' woke up in his head that shouldn't'a popped up for another coupla thousand years, ready to start raisin' hell all over again. They grabbed _one guy_ to try and figure out how his people could be a threat, and turned out they revved up the thing they were scared of."

There were several seconds of silence after he finished. "Does this mean," the Director asked very softly, "that you lack confidence in the foundations of our endeavor, Mr. LeRoy?"

"Huh? Nah, nothin' like that." LeRoy slumped back in his chair, as if unaware of how deadly the wrong answer could be, though that was deeply unlikely. "I'm in, you know you can count on me. The guy just gets to me. He bugs me, I don't know why."

"Very well." The Director stood. "We'll select one of the alternates to take Ed's place in tomorrow's reenactment. For a few days we'll let that be the only variable — along with the small change in Tina's appearance, of course — and see what comes of it. Mr. Summers' part-time employers are still maintaining the fiction that he remains incommunicado with his secretary, rather than actually missing, so we needn't anticipate the Slayer's searching for him for some time yet." He beamed at his still-seated staff. "I'll want to look over a plan for tomorrow's activities, but I foresee no difficulties, we've all done this many times before." The benign mask flicked off, and now nothing concealed the cruelty of his smile. "Let us be about it, then. _Tempus fugits_ … for everyone except Mr. Henry Summers."

~ – ~ – ~

His eyes opened before his bedside alarm could sound, and he turned off the folding travel clock with the deftness of long habit. He knew it was meaningless, but nonetheless felt a small pride when he saw that he had awakened within a minute of the scheduled time. He stood, stretched, and spent a moment debating whether he should try to squeeze in some exercises before he showered …

… and deep within the recesses of his brain, far down where his conscious mind would never fare, deep in the forests of the night, a lion stirred and grumbled in its sleep. It wouldn't wake, not today, nor for many days to come …

… but it wouldn't sleep forever.

—

end


End file.
